


Risotto and Fishes

by copperbadge



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Food, Gen, Theology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-16
Updated: 2005-11-16
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:50:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Church, and Sunday lunch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Risotto and Fishes

Aziraphael rarely went to church. 

It wasn't that he didn't like church, but angels weren't supposed to get angry, and anyhow the last few times he'd gone he'd been forcibly removed for standing up in the middle of the sermon and contradicting the preacher. He was fairly sure one wasn't supposed to do that, and sooner or later someone was going to push his last button and then the wings were going to come out. It wouldn't do to blow his cover. 

Crowley liked church. He felt it was good to check up on the other side, and if it was a bad sermon, well, in some small way he'd done his part to witness a minor victory for his own. 

Crowley could also stand and talk to streetcorner preachers for hours. 

"Is there a reason you don't catch on fire and run screaming from the building?" Aziraphael asked, as Crowley arrived at their usual Sunday lunch table still dressed for church. "I ordered you the fish."

"I go with every good intention and I never fidget." Crowley eyed the plate of bread and butter. "Loaves and fishes?"

"Must everything be theology with you?" Aziraphael sighed, filling Crowley's wineglass and topping off his own. 

"Well...yeah, Angel, that's the point," Crowley replied, loosening his tie. He felt it was very good of him to dress conservatively for church, and that it ought to be recognised that he had, in fact, worn a tie. 

"It can't simply be that it's good fish?" the Angel asked. Crowley lifted an eyebrow behind his sunglasses. "It comes with a delicious risotto."

"Oh, well, risotto and fishes, that's all right then," Crowley drawled. 

"Suit yourself. Which was it this week?"

"Methodists in Newcastle."

"Ah. And the sermon?"

"Revelations."

"Wasn't the sermon last week Revelations? At, where was it, the Anglicans in Lincoln?"

"I like Revelations," Crowley said defensively. 

"And lo, there came unto the armageddon a flash b*stard in a flaming Bentley who said unto them -- "

"How is it," Crowley asked, interrupting him, "That you still manage to get the asterisk in place of the a in Bastard?"

"Eight hundred years' practice," Azraphael replied, leaning back as the waiter appeared with their lunches.

"Lamb?" Crowley demanded. "You're eating lamb on Sunday? I know it's traditional but isn't that a bit gauche, Angel?"

Aziraphael looked guilty and muttered something about eating of His flesh and living forever, and also how good the mint sauce was.

"You should come along next week," Crowley said suddenly, watching Aziraphael bow his head over his food and close his eyes for a brief moment. "I'm going to America."

"What sermon is so important that you've got to go all the way to America for?" Aziraphael asked when he was finished. 

"Song of Songs," Crowley replied. Aziraphael beamed.

"That's my favourite and no one ever does it!" he said joyfully. 

"You should come."

"I shall! And you'll be there to elbow me if I start to stand up," Aziraphael said. 

"His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of waters, washed with milk, and fitly set," Crowley murmured.

"Sorry?" Aziraphael asked.

Crowley smiled. "Nothing," he said. "Sunday next, then, in Boston."

_Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine._


End file.
